Schizophrenia
A mental disorder characterized by disintegration A mental disorder characterized by disintegration of thought processes and of emotional responsiveness. Name: Ward, Wilson Diagnosis: Schizophrenia Wilson was seventeen and eligible for fictional blood and violence with his recommended age. The twenty-first century has been brutal on the youth's minds; R-rated movies and M-rated videogames were the nucleus of this blood and violence of which is targeted at mature teens but enjoyed by all ages. For hours a day the electricity would stimulate the screen and the screen would stimulate (or mutilate) Wilson. Mutilation... a metal baseball bat would impound someone’s face and implode their head resulting in a mouth of shattered teeth and a cranium of disorientation…a bullet’s trail would skewer someone’s skull and the exit wound would eject a concoction of brains and skull fragments…a chainsaw’s blades would vibrate as they rapidly rotated and sank themselves deep into someone’s flesh as their organs become ground and disintegrated. All of these fictional scenarios will produce a surplus amount of blood and gore as a result of the brutally vicious violence, commonly stated with an ESRB warning displayed as it corresponded to the product’s rating. There is a reason why Left 4 Dead and Resident Evil are so popular: blood and violence. But there is no reason why the human population craves the blood and violence, and Wilson had a mind that pulsed with the visualization of blood and violence. His entertainment was presented to him upon massive screens that glowed with the bright flashes that followed every gunshot. If he was epileptic, he would be dead. But he was schizophrenic…attention deficit disorder will keep you alert and attracted to newly discovered interests…obsessive-compulsive disorder will keep you clean and perfect with the satisfying pleasure of sterile sanitization…but schizophrenia will keep you confused and delusional with hallucinations within your mentality as you attempt to reason with the incredible and impossible…and then your reasoning fails and you become strangled by your own imagination as its gnarled hands grip your neck and enclose your throat…the air becomes cold and your breaths become scarce as your vocal cords find themselves struggling to scream and your mouth produces a stream of blood that dribbles down your chin. Your schizophrenic mind continues to unravel its reels of a horror film and you are forced to watch the blood and violence with dry and unblinking eyes. Fictional blood and violence; but regardless, it can be a helluva shock compared to your kids’ videogames. Wilson’s fingers were numb after applying constant pressure upon the multiple buttons, but viewing the blood that would burst from decapitated creatures was satisfying enough to eliminate his sense of touch; he would only see the gushing blood and only hear the mutated screams of the zombies. Zombies are capable of regeneration within the virtual universe to provide the viewer with an infinite satisfaction of gushing blood from a decayed body. After gaming for an excessive amount of time (more than five hours), he went to bed. After sleeping for a reasonable amount of time (less than five hours), he went to school. Wilson’s first period: mathematics, a senior math class of which he struggled to maintain a passing grade in. Wilson trudged through the doorway and became enclosed within a classroom of desks that held additional brain-dead students of which Wilson could relate to and develop an acquaintanceship with, but Wilson spoke to no one and his eyes acknowledged no one. In addition to being a hardcore gamer, his high school stereotype was a loner. Wilson relocated himself to a corner of the classroom and retired himself within a desk. A metaphorical prison would be his reference to the classroom if he had majored in English literature, but literature was just as much bullshit as mathematics. He stared at the paper of which laid upon his desk. Wilson’s pencil could only hover above the paper with its absence of a certain answer and he eventually found himself under the teacher’s worried gaze—the teacher did not show affection to Wilson (no one did), but his occupation was to provide assistance. “Wilson—what is the square root of negative one?” the teacher asked. “Impossible,” Wilson replied with a mutter. The teacher’s hand retracted and then his arm released a catapulted palm against the back of Wilson’s skull. Contact was achieved and the force slammed his head into the solid desk. His nose was now a dislodged piece of cartilage as blood streamed from his nostrils. His teeth were shattered and he had bitten his tongue into two pieces; he felt the banished chunk of flesh lose within his mouth. The hand gripped Wilson’s hair and pulled—his head was flung back and the joints within his neck scraped against one another with a painful and audible crack. ... What is the square root of negative one? Impossible was not the correct answer and Wilson’s educator continued his lesson of why it is important to study your ass off. Wilson’s head swiveled upon his dislocated neck and his paper was soaked in blood with the excess fluid flowing down the sides of the desk and onto the floor. Wilson’s nose and mouth were obliterated, and he would have thought his eyes had been forced from their sockets as well if he had not been glaring at the teacher. His hand remained grasped upon Wilson’s hair and his flesh was green and rotting with visible bone that could be observed through his torn skin. Wilson’s eyesight was blurry and bloody but his retinas still provided him with the vision of a damned zombie. Zombies are also capable of torture with the adjectives of brutal and intense…they are strong and demanding and ravenously survive off of your precious flesh and blood. Wilson’s blood was freely flowing from his face and squirting from the busted blood vessels within his forehead. He attempted to scream but his severed tongue disapproved. His teacher obtained the pencil that lied upon the desk, gripping it as if it was a fork and performed a procedure as if Wilson was a steak. The wooden shaft was lunged into Wilson’s eyeball and the retina exploded with a splash of blood. The remaining particles of the eyeball were scooped from its socket and ripped from the optic nerve by the simple implement that provides the art of writing. The pencil was converted from a bright yellow to a sickly stained red and its finely sharpened point of graphite had been lost as it was lodged within Wilson’s eyeball. The point of the pencil was now a splintered circumference of wood in desperate need of a sharpener. “I am diagnosing your son with schizophrenia,” the doctor stated. The doctor’s emotions were absent of surprise—Wilson’s schizophrenia was immediately suspected as Wilson skittishly staggered through the medical edifice and screeched at the terrorizing monsters. “Less than one percent of Americans suffer from this particular mental disorder,” he informed Mrs. Ward, “and seventy-five percent of schizophrenics fully recover or significantly improve,” he scribbled upon his clipboard and handed her a paper that was polluted with overwhelming medical terms. “Here’s a prescription for a clozapine, Clozaril—twenty-five milligrams daily.” Mrs. Ward examined the paper with a wondering mind… ... Seventy-five percent of schizophrenics fully recover or significantly improve, “And what about the other twenty-five percent?” she asked with her eyes filled of worry and concern. “Unimproved and hospitalized,” and Mrs. Ward’s mind began to flash with the horrifying images of her son being restrained within a hospital bed with his life in the metallic hands of monotonously beeping monitors. The doctor continued, “Or suicide.” Name: Ward, Wilson Allergies: Clozapine, Chlorpromazine Wi on was obedient in consuming the pills contained within a bottle that was labeled Clozaril—twenty-five milligrams worth of tablets would be drowned with a gulp of water every night. Before the process had even become routine, Wilson began to vomit the medicine just minutes after the dosage’s consumption. Th doctor remained patient with Mrs. Ward’s return, but additional prescribed brands of schizophrenic aid were to no avail…the vomiting continued to transport itself against gravity as it flowed from the stomach and up the esophagus due to the antipsychotic phenothiazine. The substance would uncontrollably erupt from Wilson’s mouth and his oral hygiene had mutated into a tongue that was drenched with digested food and provided a tingling sting of stomach acid. The symptoms of severe nausea were immediately followed by the violent vomiting. Wi on would be attempting an online game upon his console only to abandon his team and enter the bathroom. As he would vomit, the velocity would splash into the toilet bowl and splatter upon the porcelain seat and drip down to the floor and develop darkened stains within the bathroom rug. The process of regurgitation had become routine. Wi on remained under the dictatorship of his tormenting stomach—the acid would travel upstream and he would locate the bathroom. The toilet was clogged with bloody and repulsive shit within the revolting and disgusting bathroom. His vomit added to the bowl and chunks of food and streams of blood were released with violent moans. An then Wilson was not alone—a zombie in need of relief stepped inside the bathroom. A zombie…the creature was perplexed as it glared at Wilson who was hunched over and releasing one abrupt hurl after another with his head deep beneath the rim. The toilet’s bowl was a dark brown with small pools of blood that floated on top of the shit and vomit with its repulsive odor and appearance. Every forceful release of vomit would create splashes of the toilet’s contents that would splatter upon Wilson’s face, and then the spectating zombie approached the ill teenager. Its eyes were widened with a yellow hue and inflamed blood vessels that focused upon pure examination of Wilson and his vomiting. Wi on was unaware of what stood inches away. The zombie clutched the back of his head and forced his face into the bowl of shit. He was now experiencing hell’s version of what the kids called a swirly—his face was repeatedly thrust into the waste and the toilet’s contents were applied within his mouth and nostrils and trapped beneath his eyelids. Wilson’s vomiting immediately seized but his sickness only increased…he could no longer handle the taste of rotting contents within a toilet and he could no longer handle the torture of being drowned in blood, vomit, and shit. Wi on whipped his head backwards from the toilet and into the zombie bastard; it staggered from Wilson as he stood up, wiping the shit from his face. The substances were still in his mouth and its horrendous taste was still upon his tongue, but this was not his first priority. Wi on jabbed the zombie with his fists and grasped its head, using his arms to reel the zombie towards the commode and shoved its demented face into the bowl. Wilson restrained the zombie as he held its head firmly and allowing it to receive a taste of its own feces flavored medicine. “K ma’s a bitch!” was Wilson’s witty line that corresponded to his defense. He was unaware of the zombie’s intelligence and ability to comprehend the derogatory terms, but a release of fury and anger is always followed by relief and satisfaction. Th zombie struggled but was helpless with its head in the shitter. Wilson applied a single hand to continue its restraint and used the other to flush—the silver level was operated and the zombie twisted its limbs in humiliation as waterfalls of putrefaction streamed over the bowl’s rim. The toilet gurgled and sputtered as the shit overflowed and consumed the zombie’s head as it kicked and screamed until its breaths were deceased by the highly contaminated water. The damned zombie of limp flesh and bone was killed by a damned toilet. Wi on was obscure and disoriented with the recent actions of which he had just experienced. His reality was twisted within his disorder and the difference was inevitable to his schizophrenic mentality, and the image of the dead zombie began to illuminate out of focus until reality was restored with the evaporation of the fictional species that lay deceased before him. “A what do you see?” the therapist continued. “Z bies…” Wilson sat in the chair across from the therapist; a comfortable chair designed for luxury and relaxation while the patient discusses their uncomfortable aspects of their fucked up life. “Attacking and…scaring the shit outta me,” Wilson’s eyesight blurred with tears of fright, “just like it was a…” “. Videogame?” and Wilson’s sentence was completed with perfection. “N they’re real zombies,” and a tear streamed down his cheek. A teenager’s hidden emotions will always be revealed with the confrontation of real zombies and the horror of which they are capable of releasing. “T “They are not real, and this is all in your head. They are a figment of your imagination,” and the therapist’s expression displayed a face of assistance and information. “Abnormally excessive amounts of time dedicated to your videogames with these zombies have triggered these hallucinations and thus they are a figment of your imagination,” the doctor assured. …they are a figment of your imagination, Wilson pondered the therapist’s analysis. He noted the documented PhD of which was framed upon the wall—it didn’t mean shit; they’re real zombies. He remained in denial as the therapist glared at him with eyes that mutated into fluorescently yellow spheres with dilated pupils. The therapist’s flesh aged hundreds of years within seconds and his cologne was replaced with the stench of a rotting cadaver that lay abandoned within its grave. Wilson immediately located his entrance and converted it into his exit. He attempted to abandon the chair but was securely constricted—yards of barbed wire were wrapped around him and the pointed tips were planted deep within his flesh; both his clothes and flesh were torn and ripped. The therapist ascended and produced a hammer. Hammers…they are dense and solid fixtures of metal of which is mounted upon a wooden shaft and specifically designed for impounding nails into wood—but we all know what hammers are, and we all know what they are capable of performing within a horror story written by a twisted teenager. The zombie therapist approached his stationary patient with his wielded hardware. Wilson was screaming but the decibels were muffled by duct tape; however, the therapist preferred to hear his patient’s screams and experience the piercing sound rampage with vibration through his eardrums. He gripped the silver sheet of adhesive and slowly peeled it from Wilson’s lips, and his screams were now audible. The therapist raised the hammer with a fingered nail pointed at Wilson’s temple and swung with enough force to split the atoms within the air’s oxygen. The first impact projected the nail through Wilson’s head and shattered half of his teeth and his neck was forced with strain as his head rotated one hundred degrees—fifteen degrees more than the human neck’s capable range of motion. Wilson’s skull was a broken piece of pottery and his screams became distorted as his jaw became unhinged as it spilled blood and shards of teeth. The bones of his neck and above were exposed through the torn flesh that the hammer had impounded with its single strike. The therapist admired the hammer as it was drenched in blood and held peelings of flesh, and then he swung again. Wilson did not even flinch—his face was too distorted to perform even the most basic of functionality, and when the hammer struck, his injuries were accompanied by a second impoundment of equivalent force upon the existing wounds. Mutilation…the remainder of his teeth vanished…the eyeballs within his sockets ejected…the brains within his cranium erupted. Wilson’s jaw became severed and the tongue within his mouth became mangled within the back of his throat and his nose became implanted within the back of his skull. His blood escaped and splashed across the chamber as it flowed from the mutilation and he screamed as the therapist listened with pleasure as he repeated the torturous beating. The screaming continued and the physical feelings of hell possessed Wilson’s nerves with the agonizing torture that the therapist forced upon him. A massive pool of blood had formed beneath the chair and every violent jerk of Wilson’s body would release another spouting of blood that would add to the sickening pool. Every brutal impoundment of the hammer created the crunching of broken bones and squirting of escaping brains and Wilson’s face could only be described as shards of broken glass of which had been scrubbed and polished with a bucket of blood. The therapist performed his maniacal laughter as he viewed Wilson’s face: a bloody pulp of which was so badly beaten that even his own mother would not have had the capability of recognizing him. The barbed wire remained gripped within Wilson’s flesh as its razor teeth sank deep between the ribcage of his chest. “In the 1930s the Nazis began experimenting with electric fencing,” the therapist seized the hammer. “And two hundred and fifty volts could be applied with the flick of a switch,” and the therapist approached one of the walls of which enclosed the room and gestured towards a threatening on/off switch. “Do you know what the Nazis did to the Jews?” Wilson refrained from acknowledging the rhetorical question but was aware of the gruesome analogy of which portrayed his body that was held in captivity by the zombie. …do you know what the Nazis did to the Jews? Torture, the deliberate systematic of torment, was the most accurate word with its details lying within the history of the genocide. Mathematics had previously ripped Wilson’s eyeball from his socket, and mathematics were just as much bullshit as history. Wilson believed of torture (especially to this extreme degree) being more vicious than death…the flavor of death is foul as it scrapes against your tongue and paralyses your taste buds as the Grim Reaper retrieves your soul with an absence of struggle and hesitation, whereas torture will twist your limbs and snap your bones as it slowly splits your nerves and your veins are slashed with your arteries donating your blood to the floor. The zombie therapist flicked the switch to the on position. Wilson lay in his bed with his eyelids contracted and his eyeballs dry as they blankly stared at the ceiling with fear and horror. His mind repeatedly shifted from his videogames of entertainment to his schizophrenia of zombies and his moans of despair would produce a petrified logorrhea as he attempted to sleep. The air was cold within the chilling atmosphere and the darkness was pure with its depths of emptiness that had consumed Wilson. He felt as if his blankets were solid and provided no warmth or comfort and his pillows were that of stone with a frozen texture. He eventually rose from the bed and sat upon its edge, debating if he should obtain a glass of water. I’m thirsty, he thought, but too fucking scared. Wilson remained sitting and placed his elbows upon his knees and buried his face within his palms, noticing his face and hands were sweating with fear. The body fluid of sweat seemed improbable with the icy temperature that thieved his body heat, but it fluidly ran with the sign and symbolism of something’s not right here. A pair of arms of which possessed decaying hands darted from beneath Wilson’s bed and abruptly grasped his ankles. Wilson’s reaction was instant—his beads of sweat felt as if the droplets had frozen whilst midstream and his breath released a gasp of startled fright as his vocal cords vibrated with a scream. He abandoned the bed in an attempt to awaken from the nightmare but he stumbled over the grotesque arms and collapsed upon the floor. He rotated his field of vision and viewed the gap between his floor and the base of the bed as the arms extended and revealed a mangled body of which was groping the carpet as it crawled from beneath the bed. Wilson’s legs fumbled upon themselves as he found his balance; once standing, he relocated himself out of his bedroom and sprinted down the hallway. He refused to reverse his vision in an attempt to refrain from viewing the zombie of which may have been following him and waiting to apply its ravenous appetite upon him. Wilson approached the conclusion of the hallway and entered the bathroom—the door was slammed and the lock was applied. Wilson’s breath had vanished with a rapidly expanding chest that released breaths of which were so deep and frequent that it was as if his lungs were pulsing into a size that was larger than his ribcage. Wilson stared at the medicine cabinet which presented a mirrored image of his petrified self upon the reflecting glass—he abandoned the door and approached the cabinet. He rummaged through the cabinet’s contents: multiple bottles of pills were available with their labels overwhelmed by the strict and excessive warnings printed upon the containers—they didn’t mean shit; an overdose sounded pretty damn good right about now…Wilson would experience a seizure as his saliva spills from his mouth and his eyeballs pivot to hide his colored irises while his heart rate increases and then refrains from beating entirely as his soul escapes from his disordered mind and demands his schizophrenia to fuck off. Wilson obtained one of the bottles and began to open it in haste, acquiring a glimpse of the label’s title: Clozaril… …twenty-five milligrams daily, And Wilson poured a threatening surplus of a vigupled dosage. His cupped hands held the precious pills and he began his consumption with a painfully enormous dry swallow. A sudden and startling thud echoed against the bathroom door. The noise repeated: thud, thud, thud… The pills (thud) were overflowing from his mouth (thud) as they slowly progressed themselves (thud) down Wilson’s throat as he gulped (thud) the plethora of medicine. The center of the door snapped into a splintered crevice and Wilson was staring through the crack directly into the dead but vivid eyes of the damned zombie. The zombie lunged—the crevice expanded and the dead flesh upon its face advanced until it was inches away from Wilson’s face. He retreated with a jolt of terror as the zombie peered inside the bathroom with its head in the door’s developed opening as it watched the mortal flesh cower in pure yet unrefined fear and horror. Wilson’s eyes were watering and his voice was screaming as he imagined the zombie taunting Heeere’s Johnny! as if his mind attempted to convert the situation into a comical reference. And then Wilson’s stomach churned with the pills’ effect of which was instant and intense. He immediately felt as if poison had crept through the membrane of his stomach and applied a vicious ulcer within the organ. The stomach acid hissed and the vomit began to— The bathroom door shattered into shards of wood and the zombie had clutched Wilson and obtained full control over him. It gripped Wilson’s shoulders with its sharpened and enlarged fingernails that pierced themselves into his collarbones and forced him into the medicine cabinet. His shoulders were bleeding and soaking through what resembled bloody and tattered epaulettes and the bottles of pills became splattered with blood from the back of his head. The bottles were smashed open and the tablets of medicine spilled from the corrupted cabinet as Wilson’s head was repeatedly making violent contact with where the rows of toiletries were previously settled. But there was not just blood-soaked pill bottles—there were clippers, tweezers, scissors, etcetera and Wilson’s hand rummaged through the cabinet as he attempted to refrain himself from staring into the zombie’s eyes of macabre mutiny. Scissors…they are two circular handles of which hilt two blades with the capabilities of opening and closing—but we all know what scissors are, and we all know what they are capable of performing within a horror story written by a twisted teenager. Wilson’s head was bashed against the medicine cabinet one final time, and as the blood spewed and spurted from the gash and smeared itself across the tiled bathroom walls, his hand managed to grasp the pair of scissors. The dual blades were thrust into the zombie’s mouth and the scissors speared its tongue and uvula as if it was a skewer. The pointed end had emerged through the back of the bastard’s skull and its eyes widened with pain—it attempted to scream, but its necessities of vocalization had been forced from its mouth and out through the back of its skull. Wilson retracted the scissors and altered his performance: the makeshift dagger was forced up its nose with one blade piercing through its eye socket and the other lunging itself into its brain. And then the zombie released its grip from Wilson’s shoulders as its remaining eyeball glassed over with blood of which flowed down its face in addition to its brains being a geyser that splattered itself across the bathroom ceiling. Blood had soaked the room and coated every damned square inch of the eight-by-ten chamber and the incandescent bulbs now glowed with the red tinge of a photographer’s darkroom. The zombie produced one final thud—its deceased corpse collapsed upon the floor with a splash in its own blood… …and Wilson realized that the pills were working. “Your son…he overdosed on Clozaril,” the doctor stood with Mrs. Ward as she began to sob with a hand clapped over her mouth and glistening tears across her face. She slowly allowed her hand to glide down upon her chin as her mouth uttered, “It was…suicide?” “Attempted suicide,” the doctor assured and corrected—an accurate presumption (unless Wilson simply wanted to kill that undead sonofabitch), “and his severe allergies applied no sympathy—the clozapine and chlorpromazine should be discarded. The prescription was terminated and therefore these medicines are only dangerous to a suicidal teenager.” Suicidal is the most devastating term in regards of a reference to your own child as a preaching mother lives in fear of the possibilities of their child’s desired and deliberate death. The doctor and mother stood together as they viewed Wilson through a window of thickened and well-polished glass as the patient was screaming in terror with his skin as pale as his hospital gown of which included blotches of sweat and dried vomit. He resembled a victim of an exorcism as his body convulsions grew more violent with every reassuring you’re going to be okay, and the nurses began to strap and tighten the restraints upon his body. The nurses applied their weight upon the belts as the strips of leather and polypropylene webbing intertwined within the buckles and guaranteed the security of Wilson’s safety. Wilson’s chronology was slowed but refused to seize—the lights of the hospital powered off and blackness engulfed the medical establishment as the clock ticked into the dark and early AM hours. A consistent beep of the heart rate monitor was the only audibility of Wilson’s room as he remained strapped upon the bed in silence. Wilson could only wander with his eyes: he scanned the room with a grey-toned filter within his vision as his pupils dilated. He studied the monitor as its illuminated green line spiked approximately twice every second with the repetitive and irritating beep…beep…beep… And within the corner of Wilson’s eye his peripheral vision aided him with the sight of a silhouetted creature. His eyes promptly rotated themselves as they stared directly at the eerie figure of which stood idle at the end of his bed. He stirred within the bed restraints which progressed into violent jerks against the strapping to no avail—his wrists and ankles were bleeding from the friction and the belt upon his chest struggled to contain Wilson’s rapid and heavy breaths as his chest consistently elevated up and down. He could only imagine the events of which followed a threatening figure directly adjacent to his completely constrained body and his heart rate significantly increased with a quickened pace of beep-beep-beep- “Get me the fuck out of here!” but no one was there—reality would provide a hospital of which was available with employees within all twenty-four hours of the day, but a schizophrenic bend of reality can only offer you a disappointment of your expected rescue. The figure tossed a bottle upon Wilson and it gently landed within the folds of his sweat- and vomit-stained hospital gown. The cylinder made a graceful rotation as the bottle’s label presented itself inches from Wilson’s eyes: Clozaril. He struggled to obtain the medicine but his wrists would only bleed more fluidly against the restraints, and then a familiar appearance of fluorescently yellow spheres presented themselves within the silhouetted figure as it thrust itself upon Wilson as if it was a lapdog reuniting with its loving owner for the first time in years—except it was a goddamned zombie. The zombie’s devour began as if the missionary position was performed with teeth and talons gripping the flesh of the restrained victim and Wilson could only scream. His chest became torn with his organs exposed and he realized that his heart was visible, beating with a synchronized rhythm unified with the rapidly beeping monitors. The human heart can squirt its pumping blood approximately ten yards, and Wilson was a first-hand witness; the organ pulsed its fluids from his chest and across the room—the blood soaked his dull hospital gown, drenched the molesting zombie, and coated the walls with a red of which was so deep that it was visibly vibrant regardless of the darkness…and then the lights turned on. A shockwave of brightness exploded within the secluded room; his gown was thick with sweat, the zombie had vanished, and the walls had been replaced with their original décor of a solid grey surface area. Wilson was abruptly greeted with what seemed to be the hospital’s entire staff as they began to grope him with tubes and needles until his heartbeat began to stabilize. Wilson stared at his sweat stained chest with his eyes widened; his heart was now enclosed beneath his ribcage and between his lungs underneath the flesh and muscle that had just been torn apart by— Impossible, he assured himself. Impossible was not the correct answer to the square root of negative one, and it was not the correct answer to his horrific experience…schizophrenia remains a suffering prisoner within your mind and is enclosed by your skull, but it is a real disorder. Heart rate? the doctors would shout answers across Wilson’s hospital bed—his knowledge was unspecified of the actual BPM, but he knew that his heart rate was fast. Blood pressure? and Wilson’s arm had become numb with constriction—his veins were upon the verge of explosion beneath his flesh and he knew that his blood pressure was high. Vague answers were Wilson’s mind’s only interpretation of his current hospitalized state, but the vagueness had managed to develop the confirmation of the seriousness of his health. Several masked men and women were staring at him through foggy goggles with worry in their eyes and sweat creeping from their brows. The commotion within his hospital room would have been overwhelming with the incredible stress of wondering if your survival will be in existence within the next few moments—but Wilson could only think of his damned videogames. Wilson felt his nerves jolt with excruciation within his arms as painful injections of Lanoxin were applied with the thick solution slowly accessing his bloodstream like coarsely ground heroin. His eyeballs had enlarged with terror and the blood vessels of which clung to the whites of his eyes had expanded from threads into coils of jute and hemp, and just before his eyeballs were upon the verge of combustion, the eyes’ blood vessels began to pop with the feeling of thrusting thumbtacks into your pupils—the blood began to flow from Wilson’s eyes as fluidly as his tears. One week later… …Wilson remained unimproved and hospitalized. Schizophrenia is a bitch without a magazine of lead and gunpowder, virtually provided within your standard shoot ‘em up videogame. And a bitch is the only description of the vague week that was just mentioned—whether the blood dribbled from his mouth or spewed from his body, it was fucking everywhere. Wilson examined his mother—sleeping upon the couch within his hospital room. Then he examined the nurses and doctors—occupied with tasks of which were unrelated to Wilson. Then he examined his restraints—tightened with a constriction of his circulation to guarantee his immobilization. He began to force himself free from these considerably inhumane restraints. It was suddenly as if his irritating IV had been administrating large and stimulating doses of phencyclidine into his bloodstream as his body violently pulsed with rapid vibrations of adrenaline. Wilson began to force his right hand from the strapping—his flesh began to peel but his pain was contained within his determination to perform a stealthy departure. His force remained constant as his palm was shedding itself against the dividing leather strap and the knuckles of his index and middle fingers were slowing becoming grated from his hand as the blood flowed from the broken skin and trickled down onto the tiled floor. And then the excruciation concluded once the shafts of the fingers were reached and his hand was released with a splattering of blood across the walls as his arm flung itself due to the gained momentum. Wilson’s hand was torn and bloody but still functional—he unstrapped his remaining hand, then his chest, and then his ankles…and then his escape was thrust into motion. He gauzed his hand but remained with a noticeable wound that stained all contacted material as the blood profusely drained from his wrist down. Wilson navigated through the labyrinth within the hospital—it was eerie with a darkened mood of depressingly diagnosed patients that required attention of which was currently unapplied to the escaping schizophrenic patient. Wilson entered the nearest elevator and pressed the G upon the rows and columns of buttons and left a fingerprint of blood that illuminated red. He slowly descended…the towering medical edifice was enormous with its vertical structure of which an elevator of eight miles per hour struggled to satisfy its passengers with speed. The elevator was dimmed and comforting as the classical music slowly echoed itself within the descending concealment…it was almost soothing. And then an arm bulleted from behind—it was bloody and mostly bone, recognizably familiarized as another one of the damned zombies. Wilson was backtracked into constriction just prior to his forced release; the arm constricted his throat, and just before his trachea was closed, Wilson screamed. The echoes consumed the elevator and drained the classical melody as the zombie shifted Wilson’s body into the elevator doors. They were now staring into each other’s eyes…Wilson could only scream in terror as the zombie’s everlastingly fluorescent yellow eyes seemed to spear his prey with visions of disgusting desire. The zombie’s hand lunged again—fingers gnarled and claws extended, it applied its slimy and clammy grip upon Wilson’s neck and searched for his throat. The hand clawed its way into his neck’s tendons and ripped the vocal cords from his neck as the screams began to decelerate into silence. The talons’ scraping continued to disconnect the jointed muscles from Wilson’s neck as the bones of his upper spine were rearranged into a mangled mess of bone and blood. Wilson realized that his laryngeal prominence had been converted into a bloody hole within his neck and strings of flesh and vocal cords protruded as blood splashed upon the zombie’s demonized face. The ding alarmed from the elevator as the ground floor was contacted and the doors horizontally glided open. Wilson fell backwards as the supporting doors secluded themselves, but he immediately stood up and ran like hell. Wilson wanted to scream in pain and agony from the traumatization, but his vocal cords were dangling beneath his chin and swaying streams of blood that twisted into a jagged trail. Only gasping breaths of blood erupted from his mouth as he staggered through the front doors of the hospital with a desperate crave for Clozaril. Witnessing these zombies without their concealment behind a plasma screen was analogical to shaking hands with death. No, Wilson was closer with death than what he would be with an orgasmic girlfriend; he was kissing and caressing death, and death was taunting him in bed with a compassion for brutal and intense torture. Wilson wandered through the parking lot as he was surrounded by aisles of silenced vehicles—it was cold and the fog was thick upon the dampened windows as the reflection of the full moon glistened with a sense of haunted beauty. He noticed one particularly familiar car: his mother’s 1980 Honda Civic—a piece of shit. The car was red with an elderly coating of paint applied long ago and never refurbished with rust and indentations adding to the shitty authenticity. Wilson’s head rotated and he peered just below the darkened clouds to spectate the multiple hospital rooms within the upper floors—his mother’s purse of which contained the car keys remained imprisoned within the hospital; however, Wilson was aware of the spare key, unoriginally hidden in the driver’s sun visor. If Wilson stole a car that was in his family’s possession, was it considered grand theft auto? He smirked at the videogame reference and jabbed his elbow through the door’s window. He briefly observed his bleeding elbow and unlocked the door, seating himself behind the steering wheel and unfolding the visor above his head—the key fell into his lap and the piece of shit was now capable of propelling Wilson further from the hospital. The key was inserted into the transmission and Wilson cocked his wrist, starting the car. It accelerated as pressure was applied upon the pedal and he drove—he drove with a blood-soaked arm and a severely mutilated neck and with the absence of a predetermined route, but he was escaping from the zombies. Wilson eventually drove onto an unmaintained road and onto an abandoned mesa of which overlooked deep into the city and its ocean of lighting. It was as if his current elevation was equivalent to that of his former hospital room as he silenced the hatchback and remained stationary upon the risen formation of rock. Wilson cried and moaned with the increasingly powerful depressant of agonizing confusion within his schizophrenic mind. He searched the glove compartment for a bottle of Clozaril—there were only pens and paddings of paper with the car’s registration stored within the pages. If the zombies were to be currently summoned within Wilson’s mentality, he would be helpless and left for dead. The fog thickened and the temperature plummeted with visible ribbons of chilled air seeping through the vents…Wilson locked the doors and kept a worried but watchful eye on the broken window just inches to his left. He remained within the darkness, stranded by fear as he waited in the car for something to happen…he waited for another damned zombie to force its uninvited arms into the car through the broken window and strangle what was left of his neck until his head settled onto the steering wheel as his dead body operated an infinite sound of the horn. The ignition was operated and the gearshift was abruptly shifted from park into drive without Wilson’s approval or touch. His head darted to the gearshift as his realization was of an entity operating his car. He panicked and attempted to unlock his door—the mysterious force disapproved, and just as Wilson was considering ejecting himself through the broken window, the gas pedal was stamped to the floor by the same goddamned force. Wilson was speechless as his throat vibrated with terror in an attempt to vanquish his fear, but he could only stare at the approaching cliff of the mesa. The car accelerated to eighty miles per hour, and just as the gaskets began to release their fireworks of smoke and small flames beneath the hood, Wilson was greeted by the mesa’s edge with death balancing itself against the vertical drop of which Wilson had rapidly approached. The Honda Civic bulleted its chassis over the rocky outcrops and was left with nothing short of mere weightless air for support. A pearling within the air occurred as the front of the car was staring directly into the ground, hundreds of yards away. Wilson closed his eyes as tears forced themselves through the sealed eyelids and he awaited impact into the underworld of damnation. The piece of shit was converted into an even bigger piece of shit as it was transformed into scraps of torn metal with all of the windows now broken into shattered shards of glass strewn about the radius of the vehicle’s splatter. Mangled between the unbolted seating and severed framework was Wilson—pain increased to its maximum level with glass and metal and bones piercing through his flesh and rapidly draining his blood supply. …beep…beep…beep…and Wilson’s eyelids slowly retracted themselves to reveal his bloodshot eyes of which remained filled with terror…beep-beep-beep- “Get me the fuck out of here!” and the nurses returned within Wilson’s presence. He immediately felt the restriction of the plaster of which molded what was practically a full body cast in addition to the returned restraints. Blood had been seeping through the plaster and the tubes inserted into his nose were incapable of providing a decent breath. The needles returned with their injections of bitter venom and vulgar hellfire spitting itself into his pulsing veins as the body convulsions grew more violent with every reassuring you’re going to be okay, “That’s a fucking lie,” and Wilson’s tone sounded as if his voice was produced by a mouth of sharpened teeth and a forked tongue. “Get me the fuck out of here,” and a mouthful of blood was spat from his demanding oral cavity. Wilson then screamed in pain as a massive migraine pounded within his fractured skull with a feeling of his cranium being imploded into his brain. The blood began to squirt from his tear ducts and dribble down his earlobes in addition to a severe nosebleed that began to fill his oxygen tubing with blood instead of air. The mutation reoccurred with a redundancy of hell of which masticated Wilson—whether it was trapped within his mentality or escaped from the actuality, he felt the torture as the miraculously zombified nurses began their procedure upon Wilson. The scalpels were gripped with one in each of the nurses’ clutches, resembling a fork and knife with Wilson appearing to be the entrée. He was considered extremely rare as the blood soaked his hospital bed and dripped onto the floor. The blades were dug into his body and began to string his nerves from his arms and fillet his chest open to reveal his internal organs. The zombies shoveled the contents from beneath Wilson’s flesh and onto the floor as they progressed inside the body with their arms drenched from their elbows down. Wilson’s stomach was taunted and vomit erupted from his mouth in addition to the screams—the nurses loved every goddamned second of it as his ribs were slowly detached from his ribcage, each producing a splintering snap of bone. Eventually, Wilson’s heart was detached from its valves and removed from his chest, and he watched as the nurses devoured the beating organ with widened mouths collapsing against the succulent muscle of pumping blood. “Get me…the fuck…out of here…” and the nurses monitored his pulse with gentle care as the doctor approached his hospital bed. “Wilson—you’re safe now; how are you feeling?” He felt like pure shit defecated from a retarded elephant. But the zombies had vanished. “Where are the casts? Where are the restraints?” and Wilson jolted upright as the nurses stabilized him to remain in the hospital bed. “Hospitals haven’t used restraints in years…” Wilson continued to lie alone in his hospital bed. The room only consisted of Wilson and a few simple elements of furniture—to his right was a small table with a card that read Get Well Soon standing before a brightly colored gift bag with overflowing tissue paper; to his left was an abandoned nurse’s cart with various implements, including a sharpened scalpel and a bottle of Clozaril. Wilson extended his aching arm with reaching fingers—the station to his left was approached. The probes of his fingers made contact with the bottle of Clozaril and the container was tipped over with a spilling of the tablets. Wilson didn’t care—he was reaching for the scalpel. The scalpel was obtained and Wilson admired the wrist of his right hand. He wondered where the wounds of the bed restraints had gone, but this only added to his confusion. And this confusion was developed by a mere mental disorder—schizophrenia. And this schizophrenia motivated Wilson to apply the scalpel’s blade against the thickened blue veins of his wrist—the deathly blade of surgical implementation was reassigned to the task of Wilson’s suicide. The blade was slowly slicing the arteries followed by a gushing of blood accompanied by Wilson’s tears. The rhythmic arterial bleeding was copious with a successful cardiac arrhythmia progressing into the schizophrenic’s death. Wilson’s circulatory collapse and cardiac arrest had developed real convulsions and with the absence of the damned zombies. These convulsions were his last movements as a wandering arm struck the gift bag and revealed its contents: the newest releases of the franchised videogames Left 4 Dead and Resident Evil—complete with the mature blood and violence. Inside the card were a few lines of imprinted cursive—beneath that was a handwritten Love, Mom written by the loving mother of Wilson Ward. “It was... suicide?” Wilson’s schizophrenia was now history, but history is just as much bullshit as happy endings to conclude a horror story written by a twisted teenager. Category:Mental Illness Category:Dismemberment